


Unconditional Surrender

by astolat



Series: POI works [17]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Criminal Mastermind AU, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Will you promise me to go?" Harold said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconditional Surrender

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】Unconditional Surrender无条件投降 by astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/756973) by [lotusfire666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotusfire666/pseuds/lotusfire666)



> With heaps of thanks to lim! Also, I should possibly mention up front that this is a barrel of id poured directly onto the page, so, er, enjoy!

John didn't fight them cuffing him to the chair; there was no point. Harold's people knew what they were doing, and there were too many of them. He just kept his eyes on Harold, across the room, and listened, catalogued voices and faces, intel to take back and hand over. He felt tired and sore, bruised more with failure than pain: Harold's people hadn't worked him over when they'd caught him, they'd just immobilized him, efficiently, and locked him down. Harold still didn't believe in brutality.

John had killed two people in Morzine yesterday, and another one this morning in the village outside, tracking down this warehouse. A distorted voice from Control in his ear saying, "Take them out," and he'd pulled the trigger. He knew it had been worth it, in the cold calculus of desperation. This had been the first real chance to get to a primary operation that they'd gotten in the last year. The first real chance to get to Harold.

And those chances were running out. Harold had told him it would be five years to finish moving the rest of the pieces on his chessboard into place: then checkmate, and the Machine gently ascending into absolute power, nations collapsing like emptied sacks. "Five years, most likely," Harold had said tiredly, facing him in the library, the last time they'd spoken. The hope had gone out of his face by that point in the conversation. "I'm afraid I can't tell you any more than that, John, given your answer."

John had been cuffed then, too. Harold had put the key down on the floor underneath the nearest bookshelf before he'd left. John had been unlocked and on the street in under four minutes, barely enough time for Harold to make it down the stairs and out, but Harold had already been gone.

That had been three years ago. John had expected the ISA to shoot him; he'd expected to be interrogated every way there was, even though he'd gone in to answer the questions, and to tell them about the ones they didn't know to ask. At least he'd expected to be thrown into a dark cell, somewhere they didn't tell people about, and forgotten.

They'd given him a job instead. "He's the most dangerous terrorist in the world," the big man in the office with the view of the Capitol had said, hands folded over his paunch, his voice incongruously warm and steady. "And you know more about him than anyone else alive. You've proven that you're loyal to your country, Mr. Reese. We need you on this mission."

John wished they'd shot him.

Harold had found other people in the meantime, obviously. Good people, from what John was seeing. The senior officer — Morales, he'd heard someone call her — was trying to talk to Harold; he was answering her, but he was looking back at John. Harold's face looked pretty much the same as it had last time, leaving: clenched and unhappy. Like he'd lost, instead of won.

John couldn't hear what the rest of his ISA squad was doing; Harold's people had taken his earpiece and his main transponder. But he knew they weren't going to get here in time. Twenty minutes out at least, and Harold's team would be gone in ten; they were already done breaking down the major equipment, and a couple guys in the corner were setting up to fry the remaining electronics.

"Sir, the first transport is ready to go," Morales was saying, urgently. "You should get to it now — "

"Don't hold it up," Harold said, and didn't move. She shot John a hard, wary look, and moved away to talk to her other people. The warehouse was emptying rapidly; ten people left, six, four, and Morales had Harold by the arm and was saying, "Sir, we have to go _now_ ," and Harold said calmly, "Lauren, I'd very much appreciate it if you left one of the cycles outside when you leave."

" _What?_ " she said. "Sir — _Harold_. I don't care who he is, we can't take this kind of risk with you."

"Assume I'm compromised unless Aurora tells you otherwise," Harold said, ignoring her. John wondered what the hell Harold thought he was doing; he could blow another five minutes, but if he was traveling by motorcycle he couldn't afford ten.

"We can't afford to lose you," Morales was saying, sharply, but Harold turned to her with a small smile on his face, abruptly gentle.

"You'll be fine," he said. "Aurora will be in touch. You had better go now."

John watched the exchange. If he'd been in Morales's place, he'd have told the two guys to pick Harold up and carry him. But Morales evidently had a lot more awe for Harold and a lot less irritation with him; she said miserably, "We'll wait five minutes — "

"No," Harold said. "Leave the cycle and go. Thank you," he added.

"Goddammit," Morales said, and looked at John like she wished _she'd_ shot him. Then she turned and left; the two guards trailed after her with equally unhappy expressions. And then it was just the two of them alone, Harold standing with his hands in his coat pockets opposite him. The warehouse was stripped nearly bare: nothing left but the long steel table, the chairs, a handful of cheap replaceable office equipment.

"Going to offer me another job?" John said. He idly tried the cuffs, heard them rattle against the solid metal bars of the back of the chair, no give. They were securely tight: not enough to hurt blood flow, but he wasn't getting them off even if he dislocated his thumbs.

"No," Harold said. "John, what are you _doing?_ " He limped over and dragged up one of the stray chairs and sat. "Why are you letting them do this to you again? Three people, John — Antoine Gouviens didn't even know who he was renting this warehouse to."

John sucked in a breath. "Stop," he said, harshly. " _You_ rented it."

"Yes," Harold said. "And you _killed_ him to get at me. Was that worth it? Do you want that so badly you'll let them turn you into a murderer again?"

John clenched his hands in the cuffs; if he'd been free, he thought he would've broken Harold's neck with his bare hands. "You haven't exactly left me a lot of options."

"You don't have to do this," Harold said. "You must know I never turned off the accounts. You could take the money and — "

"Go live on a beach somewhere?" John said.

"Go live in a _city_ somewhere," Harold said. "Aurora — the Machine — would offer you numbers again, John, if you would take them. You could go back to saving people instead of hurting them."

That _hurt_ ; everything — almost everything — he wanted, everything he couldn't have. "And let you just keep going?" John said. "Pretend I don't know you're doing your best to take down the United States government, and pretty much anything like democracy while you're at it?"

"This doesn't have to be your battle to fight," Harold said. "You've told them everything you know — "

"I know _you_ ," John said. He laughed shortly, without mirth. "I'm the one who got this close."

Harold was silent. "Yes," he said. His voice was thin and constrained. "I suppose that's so. You know me."

He was still for another moment, and then he picked up the gun — John's gun; they'd left it on the table. John had a moment of surprise, and then a kind of heavy, waiting relief. Harold was going to do it: get rid of the vulnerability. A hard clenched knot in his stomach eased open. He breathed out, relaxing.

Harold was staring down at the gun. He touched the parts of it lightly, with his fingers, turning it over. Guns weren't that hard to figure out; John could tell he'd already gotten it. Harold took a deep shaky breath. He looked at John. "I never meant to do this to you," he said. "I won't do this to you. I won't leave you in their hands."

John waited. He didn't feel afraid, only hollow. He'd known, even before that day in the library, when he'd found out what Harold was really doing, that Harold was too good to be true. He'd known all along that when it came down to it, Harold was like them _._ Like _him_. That it all came down to power and it always ended like this: with a gun, a bullet; with murder. He'd known that, but he'd so wanted something else. He'd wanted Harold to be something else.

But he wasn't. So John waited.

"Will you promise me to go?" Harold said. He was still staring down at the gun, his face tense and afraid and resolute.

"No," John said, easily. He wasn't tempted to give Harold that out, not even a little. "I'm not going to stop coming after you, Harold."

"Yes, I know," Harold said. "Will you promise to go if I'm dead?"

John didn't say anything; didn't think. His breath was coming suddenly ragged. He didn't want to think, he didn't want to know, he didn't want to understand, and then Harold looked up from the gun, still scared, still resolute, and said, "I'll shoot myself, if you'll give me your word."

" _No_ ," John said. The cuffs were digging into his wrists, his ankles. " _No_." The chair was bolted to the ground; it rattled under him.

Harold made a helpless, almost exasperated gesture with a hand. "John," he said, "John, what were you _here_ for? What do you think they're going to do to me if they — " and no, no, _no_ , Harold was pausing, swallowing hard; he took two short breaths, and then he licked his lips and said, a tremor in his voice, "Will you — if I stay and let them — come, will you — "

" _No!_ " John screamed at him. There was blood on his left hand, trickling, hot. He'd lost track of the time; how much was left how far away where five minutes, ten —

"All right," Harold said, gently, as if John had said _yes_ , as if John had agreed; as if he was hearing something John hadn't said, wouldn't ever say. "It's all right, John." And he was putting down the gun, he was reaching for the keys.

John said, "No. Harold. No," jerking, but Harold was unlocking his ankles, and his wrists; Harold made a small noise as he worked, and his fingers brushed once, gently, above the raw torn skin on John's wrist. Then the cuffs fell away. Harold pushed himself back up with a small grunt of effort, and John was loose, staggering up and forward, turning. Harold was standing with a hand resting on the back of the chair.

His face was calm; serene. He looked relieved; he looked like John had felt, when he'd thought Harold was going to shoot him. Like he'd found a way out of a cage. "The code on the cycle is 17943," Harold said. "It will navigate you to a safehouse you can reach in an hour; I imagine I can hold out at least two."

"No," John said. He didn't have any other words left.

"I'm so very sorry, John," Harold said, like John had found other words, still having a conversation John wasn't going to be a part of. "I know; I do realize. But I can't let them do this to you. I can't let them use me to do this to you. You must see that."

He limped over. John wanted to run; wanted to get out, except he couldn't leave. Harold was going to stay. Harold was going to stay here until the squad arrived, and they were going to _take_ him. They were going to take Harold, and break him so completely that what was left afterwards wouldn't be human; what was left would die hating the Harold of this moment, and Harold wasn't stupid or delusional; Harold knew how bad it would be.

Harold put his hand on John's face. John shut his eyes. It was the first time anyone had touched him with kindness in three years. It had been Harold then, too. "Please," Harold said. "Please go."

The gun was on the table, in reach. John looked at it. He could shoot Harold, then shoot himself.

"No, John," Harold said. "If you don't need me to wait for them, I'll be very grateful; I'll wait until you've gone. But please, let me save you." He smiled, faintly. "Consider it a last request."

John shuddered, helplessly, all over; and said, "No."

He dug into the lining of his boot for the folded ceramic knife. He flipped it open and handed it to Harold; he jerked open his jacket and his shirt and climbed onto the table and lay back. "There's a transponder on the underside of my collarbone."

Harold was already aiming one of the leftover lamps; he'd stripped off his coat and suit jacket. "I see the incision," he said. John gripped the sides of the table and bit down on the discarded canvas strap Harold gave him. Harold took a deep breath and dug in. It wasn't too bad; Harold had his lip pulled back from his teeth, wincing, but his hands were steady. The tip of the knife scraped the transponder; thirty seconds and it was out, and Harold was taking off his waistcoat and folding it into a pad.

John spat out the piece of canvas and slid off the table, used it to strap the pad on. "Let's go," he said. They hurried outside; the cycle was waiting out in the open, at the top of the road. Harold paused one moment, touched John's cheek again, his eyes wet; then he pulled on the helmet.

Distantly, John could hear the whipping of helicopter blades. He didn't know how much time they had left. It didn't really matter anyway. He climbed on behind Harold, _with_ Harold, and buried his face in his shoulder, breathed in warmth as the engine turned over underneath him. He'd never been so happy in his life.

# End

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback loved! Here or on [livejournal](http://astolat.livejournal.com) or [tumblr](http://astolat.tumblr.com)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Time makes desperate men](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9795305) by [fictionisthebetterreality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionisthebetterreality/pseuds/fictionisthebetterreality)




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